


every man will be a king (starting with Enjolras, to his annoyance.)

by phantomreviewer



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Princess Diaries Fusion, Cosette And Enjolras Are Siblings, F/M, Fluff, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Multi, Royalty, Victor Hugo cameo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 03:26:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2295002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomreviewer/pseuds/phantomreviewer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Enjolras was eighteen years old he discovered that he was a prince.</p>
<p>He did not take the news well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	every man will be a king (starting with Enjolras, to his annoyance.)

**Author's Note:**

> Featuring fandom classic of blue haired Cosette, and a frank butchering of the American school system. Artistic license has to be taken with this fic, especially with regards to France being a minor European country which no one has ever heard of.
> 
> (Painting referenced is 'And When Did You Last See Your Father?' by William Frederick Yeames.
> 
> Proof read but not beta'd.
> 
> Cross-posted to [phantaire](phantaire.tumblr.com).

When Enjolras was eighteen years old he discovered that he was a prince.

He did not take the news well.

***

Enjolras had had a relatively normal life. His mother, travelled a lot, rarely staying in the same state for more than a few weeks, and rather than drag her only son from city to city, she had agreed, after a long argument about autonomy and personal rights, to allow her son to stay with a family friend in San Francisco.

So Enjolras lived with Mister Fauchelevent, with his prison tattoos, who would grudging tell Enjolras and his friends to “call me Jean, it’s a long story,” and who behind his back had acquired the nickname Mister White, and his adoptive daughter Cosette during term time. He slept in their spare room, cooked meals with the in-sync father daughter team, slotted seamlessly into their lives, and when he had time helping out and putting hours in Fauchelevent’s garage.

He and Cosette often worked together in there, undertaking simple maintenance issues, changing oils and replacing tyres, and laughing together. More than once they’d ended up distracted from their assigned tasks by throwing the remains of sponges at each other or mock fights over who was in charge of the radio. There was something about being around Cosette that helped Enjolras relax, she was carefree and happy, and that sort of freedom was infectious. Sometimes Cosette’s friends would drop by, and Enjolras would back out of the workroom, allowing them to gossip. Sometimes it was Grantaire, who despite always looking tired, was always smiling. Occasionally Grantaire would help them in the garage, trusted with electronics that Fauchelevent would normally outsource to an electrician. Sometimes Enjolras would catch Grantaire looking at him and it always made him paranoid that he’d got motor oil on his face again; Cosette and Courfeyrac both teased him about the time he’d given a speech to the school assembly with a smear of grease across his forehead. Enjolras didn’t know how Cosette and Grantaire were friends, Cosette had mentioned something about a photography class, and waved the question away. Grantaire always ended up with oil on his face and staining his hands. Enjolras tried not to notice.

When he wasn’t working, or studying he spent his time with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. The three of them were as thick as thieves, and the bane of the school administration when they decided to taken a problem head on. They were in the same year at school and they were often spoken of together, it was never Enjolras alone, it was always Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac and more often than not in conjunction with some rabble rousing. They grinned through their reputation however and continued to plot in the library, or in one of their respective homes about the problems that the three of them, would one day, solve.

And then Enjolras’ mother sent Fauchelevent a letter, and a week later there was a royal procession standing awkwardly in the garage as Enjolras wiped carburetor grease from his hands.

"Prince Enjolras?"

"I  _ **beg**_  your pardon?!”

***

"Prince Alexander Eugène Léopold-Emile Jean Gustave François Enjolras."

Enjolras frowned, wiping his hands on his jeans as he tried to process quite what had just become of his life.

"Erm, bless you?"

The man in front of him actually smiled, before schooling his face.

He didn’t look much older than Enjolras himself, the man standing at the front of the party. His ginger hair was cut in a short, a scrappy bob around his ears, which suited his round face, and his tie was undone and he’d more metal studded into his lips, nose and ears than Enjolras expected a royal adviser to have.

This whole situation is ludicrous, but there’s something about this man that has Enjolras at least willing to listen to him.

He’s always been aware of his sexuality, and never had any issues of self-identity, there are much worse things in the world than his particular sexual expression, and most people were generally more offended by his politics than his hypothetical sexual partners anyway.

He’d never had to come out to Combeferre or Courfeyrac, they’d both known, and had kissed his cheek simultaneously and he’d flushed and shoved them away good naturally. His mother had been told via phone call, and her cold acceptance, “that’s nice dear” had been all he’d expected.

In contrast Cosette had all but jumped into his arms, telling him that of course it wouldn’t be an issue, she thought she might be bisexual herself, and Jean had shaken his hand and told him to come to him if there was any trouble.

"Your Highness, my name is Feuilly, and I’ve been sent as an ambassador of your Grandfather, King Jean Victor Marie Hugo Enjolras of France. Your grandfather is too ill to make this journey himself, and as he is obligated by law to step down from the throne upon this 90th birthday, I have come to make the appropriate arrangements. For the sake of your education you will not be required to leave America until the end of the academic year. I understand that this has come as a surprise to you, but we are here to make your transition as seamless as possible. The team behind me are deployed for your personal security. This is Javert, head of security, and Bahorel and Jehan who will be your personal security detail; we thought that you would feel more comfortable with people closer to your own age."

Javert, who could only be the scowling man hanging back, arms tightly folded behind his back, eyes darting from Enjolras, to the door, to the hovering figure of Fauchelevent in the doorway of the garage. Enjolras was strangely grateful for Fauchelevent’s presence.

Bahorel was a giant of a man, leaning against the garage wall, who appeared to be either constipated or attempting to stare down the third security detail, Jehan. In contrast, Jehan was stoically faced, short, stocky African American, man whose dreadlocks were tied behind his ears with a tie-dyed headband.

"Bahorel is decidedly hot headed but he’s the most loyal man we have. French is his native language, you will note his tendency to drift languages, Jehan will keep him in check. Jehan’s American by birth, but he’s been part of French royal security for four years now.  He’s an expert in six martial arts, he is little and fierce as the phrase goes. They will accompany you, they take their instruction from Javert, who takes his instruction from the King, and by proxy, from me. We can arrange a loosening of security once the situation has calmed."

Enjolras was sure that Dr Jacobs wouldn’t mind that he was sitting down on the bumper of her car. He needed some support, and for some reason, his legs just wouldn’t support him.

Logically he knows why these people asked to see him alone, it appears to be too much set up for a prank, but he would do with Combeferre and Coureyrac, or Cosette, for moral support. It’s overwhelming.

"In residence there is also Doctor Joly, Duke Lesgle, the master of the rod, which luckily is purely a ceremonial role, as well as the head chef Musichetta who helps to run the household. As well as Baron Marius Pontmercy and his grandfather Mister Gillenormand and a member of their household staff. They have taken up residence in the French Embassy, and you invited to meet them and integrate yourself in time for the ceremony."

Feuilly coughed once he had finished his declaration, and Enjolras just stared from where he was perched on the bonnet of Jacob’s car. His mouth was dry and his hands were sweating.

"Pardon?"

"You are the next in line to the French throne, Enjolras, you are the heir apparent. One day you will be King, I thought you were already aware of this?"

Enjolras could have cried.

"But, but, the monarchy is an outdated and morally corrupt institution."

***

Technically they weren’t allowed in the school library before the start of school. But with the choice being between knowing where Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac were and not knowing where the troublesome threesome were, the school staff tended to let them be when the three of them congregated early.

Courfeyrac was flicking through one of the massive folios on European political theory when Enjolras arrived and despite the turmoil in his mind Enjolras couldn’t help but smile at Combeferre flicking Courfeyrac’s ears and warning him not to destroy another library book.

They’d never let Courfeyrac forget the time he’d got so irritated with the interpretation of the National Indian Youth Council that he’d torn the offending page out and crumpled it up, waving the balled up paper in Enjolras’ face. His face had flamed when he’d realised that the book he’d mutilated wasn’t his own, however he’d refused to back down on his point. Still, Combeferre hugged his beloved books to his chest whenever Courfeyrac got too vehement.

"Hey guys."

Combeferre didn’t look up from reading over Courfeyrac’s shoulder, but Courfeyrac looked up, reading something into the one of Enjolras’ voice. Combeferre whined when Courfeyrac closed the book with a quiet thump.

"You okay Chief?"

Enjolras slumped down into the nearest chair, grateful for the silence of the library empty except for his friends.

"This is going to sound crazy."

Courfeyrac scoffed, and sank into the chair next to him. Courfeyrac’s presence was comforting, his warm brown skin almost radiating heat.

"Oh, come on, Combeferre believes in aliens, nothing’s going to spook him now is it?"

Combeferre braced himself against the back of Courfeyrac’s chair, leaning over into Enjolras’ peripheral vision.

"Any why not? It’s possible within the bounds of physics and possibility."

Courfeyrac lent back into Combeferre, and Enjolras could almost sense Courfeyrac’s desire to steal Combeferre’s glasses off his face.

"But Combeferre, what about the importance of tangibility?"

Combeferre’s deep breath was predicating a debate, and while Enjolras loved his friends and their opinions the weight of the secret was weighing down on his spirit.

"Sorry guys, can we get back to-"

"Yes, sorry Enjolras."

Enjolras was grateful for the steady presence of Combeferre’s hand on his shoulder.

"It, erm, transpires that my father was- No, that’s not where I should start. Well, my mother wasn’t honest with me. Look, I know how this is going to sound, but I’ve seen all the paperwork, it’s… accurate. You know how I despise autocracies?"

Combeferre and Courfeyrac nodded. It was easier to start this through the prism of his morality. He was still the same person, despite this mistake of his birth.

"My Grandfather is King of a minor European country called France. My father’s death leaves the heir apparent as… me."

Combeferre’s hand tightened fractionally around his shoulder.

"You are joking right?"

Enjolras hung his head, eyes tracing the swirls in the worn wood as opposed to watching his friend’s faces.

"I wish I were Courfeyrac, but no, it’s all official."

"Can you turn it down?"

Enjolras nodded, still not willing to look his friends in the eye.

"Yes, but if the title doesn’t go to me, instead it goes to a man called Gillenormand, and Feuilly - he’s the Royal Adviser, you’d like him- but Gillenormand sounds terrible, and surely I have a duty to preserve the people? Even a people I don’t know. I don’t know what to do."

Enjolras has never been ashamed to cry in front of Combeferre and Courfeyrac. The three of them have shed more tears together over films, over history and over the injustice of the world than they could count. He doesn’t want to be crying now.

He’s been told before that he cries delicately, no matter how aggravated or passionate he is. His tears aren’t ugly. His looks have always had him noticed. He wanted to do something wrong for once. It was all too overwhelming.

Enjolras has never been fond of excessive touch, when he’s agitated there’s something stifling about too much human contact, Combeferre’s hand on his shoulder is grounding, beneath his shaking, silent sobs, but he feels cold. Courfeyrac in contrast is the opposite with regards to touch and Enjolras can feel him hovering, wanting to offer comfort.

"What do you need Enjolras?"

Combeferre and Courfeyrac are looking at him with concern when he eventually looks up, and he cover’s Combeferre’s dark hand on his shoulder with his own.

"Help me?"

And it’s the opening that Courfeyrac has been waiting for, and Enjolras is grateful for the arms which envelop him, and the mutters of assurance from his friends.

"We’ll figure it out."

"You’re a good man Enjolras."

***

The television is flickering in the darkening room, but Enjolras isn’t really paying attention to the over dramatic characters. It’s Cosette’s favourite, and while Enjolras doesn’t care for its themes, he’ll happily watch it to spend time with her. Especially when she calls out the racism and sexism to the non-responsive screen, and bounces her ideas for improvement against Enjolras.

She’s practically his sister. His spunky, 5’2”, Korean-Filipino sister with her pastel blue tufts and her determination to be happy, and their gruff Mexican ex-con father. It’s a family he wants to be part of. He has more affinity with them than with his own mother. More affinity with the father he never knew, and the new family that he’s been assigned. It’s easier to curl up into a chair and become absorbed in whatever show Cosette is watching now than acknowledge the real world.

Except Cosette presses mute over the credits and tucks her feet underneath her as she faces Enjolras.

"So, you’re a princess now?"

Enjolras scowls, even as Cosette beams at him.

"I’m not a princess. I’ve not accepted the crown, and I don’t want the position. Did you hear what they called me? Alexander Eugène Léopold-Emile Jean Gustave François Enjolras. I didn’t even know my full name until these people told me. I have no desire to be a princess, or to take up a crown in a corrupt institution. Furthermore, I wouldn’t be a princess, not that I have any objection to being feminine, but I would, god help me, be a prince. Don’t make me call you Euphraise young lady. "

Normally Cosette loathes being called her official name, but she only smiles.

"That’s better. I just wanted to see you get passionate about something, you’ve been so down since you found out. Now, tell me what your plan is to get out of this."

***

Enjolras had his laptop and his thumbed through copies of both  _To Kill A Mocking Bird_  (for school) and Thomas Paine’s  _Common Sense_  (for pleasure) still in his shoulder bag when Feuilly had pulled up next to him on his walk home and gestured that both he and Bahorel were expected to get in,  _now_.

He’d been knowingly tailed by Bahorel that day, the day before had been Jehan, keeping six steps behind him and his friends at all times. Today had been Bahorel, who had hung about in the back of Enjolras’ classrooms, seemingly playing with his phone and taking selfies as opposed to paying attention, but Enjolras, despite his better judgement trusted and was grateful for his presence.

Luckily Feuilly had contracted his school, so the presence of Enjolras’ new cohorts were accepted without general comment.

Feuilly had organised the troublesome situation with more tact and diplomacy than Enjolras could have possibly imagined, and there was something about Feuilly as a person that Enjolras respected.

It was how he ended up in the French Embassy of an afternoon, when he’d been expecting to go to Courfeyrac’s to welcome in the weekend.

Meeting the royal household in the French Embassy was a remarkably modest affair, even accounting for the less than auspicious start, helped by Duke Lesgle - “call me  _Boshwey_ " "He means Bossuet, it’s a nickname, long story your highness"- tripping and having a nosebleed.

Enjolras’ official introductions to his household where done with Joly, the court Doctor, tending the bleeding and nasal Duke, with the rest of the household standing awkwardly around attempting to help.

Mister Gillenormand had only waited for long enough to grudgingly shake Enjolras’ hand and briefly incline his head, before leaving without a word. Gillenormand’s grandson, the Baron Marius Pontmercy stood awkwardly as his grandfather walked out, stammering his introductions while helping to prop up Bossuet.

Enjolras wound his fingers through the strap of his shoulder bag as the scene unfolded before him.

He was dragged out of his thoughts, by hearing a snort from behind him. Feuilly was leaning casually against what looked like an antique painting, rolling his eyes at the scene before him.

There’s a girl leaning against the wall next to Feuilly, short and auburn, and Enjolras can’t place her name from the multitude of names that he’s been supplied with over these last weeks. He supposes that she must be part of Pontmercy’s staff. She’s biting her lips, but when Enjolras catches her eye she smiles, ever so slightly, before flicking her eyes back to the scene of destruction before him.

Introductions continued, including, to Enjolras’ own amusement, a plump, dimpled and charming woman who strode straight up to him and introduced herself as his  _chef de cuisine_  before ducking into a dainty courtesy. She was the first person of his so called household to treat him as a human being, as opposed to a mythical prince.

As Enjolras had smiled at her, both Joly and Bossuet had sighed simultaneously, and she winked at them as she excused herself to the kitchens.

Jehan, Javert and Bahorel, introductions already have been made, where hanging back, talking in low voices between them. Enjolras didn’t want to hear what they were saying about him, about his life, and his choices. He’d managed to barter with Feuilly for his freedom that entailed Javert keeping watch on the house, while Jehan and Bahorel trace Enjolras himself on alternate days. Although Enjolras had decried having bodyguards, after Jehan had to intersect someone who had recognised Enjolras as a European prince and wanted to get closer than comfort, Enjolras had complained less about their presence.

The scene is only a degree above chaos, with Joly pinching Bossuet’s nose, Enjolras splattered with a Duke’s blood while trying to prevent a Baron from fainting at the sight of blood. Enjolras’ life has become a farce, and luckily, the informality of the scene allowed his request not to be called your highness, or your majesty, but to be called his own name, was easily accepted.

Despite the situation, Enjolras thinks that he may genuinely like his foisted-upon friends.

***

"What do you mean I have to attend a royal ball?!"

Feuilly was leaning against his desk, arms crossed and just watching Enjolras’ temper. Enjolras has been told before that his temper is something terrible, but Feuilly only cocks one studded eyebrow and watches.

"As I have said before Enjolras, on multiple occasions, if you are adamant about rescinding your position it must be announced publicly. Since the royal family have no desire to interrupt your studies, it has been agreed amid great social controversy, that this ceremony will take place in America. This ceremony was to be a celebration of your ascendancy, but these events can be altered last moment, with very little fuss or expense."

Would feel guilty, but Feuilly is trying to guilt trip him and not even trying that hard from the glint in his eye

"I’m not falling for that."

"Of course not Enjolras, it’s on the 16th, wear something formal, perhaps your least ripped ‘I don’t need sex, the government fucks me every day’ shirt, that’ll get their attention."

And Enjolras actually laughs.

He’s not sure if Feuilly’s joking.

***

They look like a motley crew, the seven of them trailing into a guarded royal residence. Enjolras was leading the way, flanked by Courfeyrac and Combeferre, who had been making pleading noises, although they’d both deny it, about the royal library. Both Jehan and Bahorel were keeping pace, obviously far more relaxed in a secured environment, Jehan had even laughed at one of Bahorel’s jokes. Cosette was trailing behind, having tucked herself under Grantaire’s arm.

It had been Cosette who had cossetted Enjolras into the visit; she wanted to see what sort of luxury he’d be turning down and she’d invited Grantaire along because, ’oh, he loves European art, and the French Embassy will have art in abundance.’

Grantaire wasn’t a tall man, but with Cosette resting her head against his shoulder and wrapping her arm around his waist, he stood taller than normal. Especially after they passed Gillenormand, who despite glaring at the group of them, had taken a second glance at Cosette’s short pastel blue hair and her flower patterned Doc Martins and had tutted, frowning. Grantaire tightened his arm around her shoulder and Enjolras stepped forward to confront him, but Cosette wormed her way out from Grantaire to wrap her hands around Enjolras’ elbow.

“Never mind him, come, you promised me wonders.”

Enjolras had promised her no such thing, but the main stairway, even he would accept, was an impressive sight.

Joly and Bossuet were standing at the top of the first flight of stairs, and Enjolras was starting to be concerned about Bossuet’s chances, when Baron Pontmercy, arms full of books dashed between them down the stairs.

Enjolras could see the tumble before it happened, where Marius missed his footing and went flying, but he was frozen in place. Cosette was not so static, and after reaching down for some of the scattered books, offered him her hand. Enjolras didn’t think he’d ever seen Cosette blush before. Well, this was interesting.

Enjolras thought that he could hear the love theme from The Lion King, and was puzzled until he looked up and saw Joly and Bossuet leaning against each other at the top of the stairs and crooning.

Combeferre, after accessing quickly, that Marius was uninjured and wouldn’t appreciate, or even notice, anyone else trying to talk to him, had eyed up the books in his and Cosette’s arms.

Enjolras grinned, and gestured which of the doors they could see led to the library. One of the libraries, but he hadn’t told them that. Combeferre tugged on Courfeyrac’s shoulder and they started to climb the stairs together. Enjolras wasn’t sure which of them was supervising the other, but he hoped that at least some of the books remained both intact, and in the library. It wouldn’t do to introduce his friends as delinquents, at least not without having started taking about anarcho-communist ideals.

With his friends dispersed, and Jehan and Bahorel seemingly blended into the background, Enjolras stepped backwards and immediately squeaked, as he came into contact with an unexpected figure behind him.

It was Grantaire, who was, as Cosette had said he would be, immersed in the artwork on the walls.

He looked startled by Enjolras’ presence for a moment, and Enjolras felt oddly self-conscious by his staring, before he turned back to the picture. It was something grand and operatic, which Enjorlas had paid no attention to during his countless visits to the embassy. He’d been spending more time than he liked to admit in royal residences. He wished he never had to come here at all.

“A rather grim painting for a royal embassy, one would think, but rather ironic.”

Grantaire seemed to be half talking to himself, but Enjolras was intrigued; to him it was just another painting, with cherubim children and shadowy figures.

“Why?”

“It’s about the English Civil War, back in the seventeenth century when Parliament was fighting the English king. Little Lord Fauntleroy, in the little blue coat there, is being asked if he knows where his monarchist father is, so the parliamentary forces can cut off his head. A strange painting for royalty to own, but it must be worth a fortune. What a waste.”

Enjolras nodded, thinking over Grantaire’s words, which Grantaire apparently took as a signal to continue.

“Well, it could be in a museum, where anyone could see it and appreciate it, as opposed to locked away in here by invitation only. But, it’s an unbelievable amount of money. All this wealth, all this pointless opulence, a self-fulfilling capitalist utopia, filled with priceless artworks while people starve on the streets. I mean, yes, it’s stunning. But who is it helping? Who is it feeding?”

Grantaire’s hands, which had been gesturing to the painting, around the room and to Enjolras himself, stilled, and Enjolras had never paid attention to the port-wine stain dyeing his fingers before. Grantaire had always been Cosette’s friend, as opposed to his. They’d never really spoken before.

“I didn’t expect that.”

Grantaire surprisingly, scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“What? I may not be beautiful,” and Enjolras could hear the air quotes when Grantaire continued, “or, ‘secret royalty’ but at least I’m a decent person.”

Enjolras spluttered, feeling his face flame.

“Excuse me, are you implying that because of this accident of my birth, of which I have no control over, and no desire to be a part of an autocratic system, that I am not a decent person.”

Grantaire sighed, and shook his head with a slight smile.

“Oh, you're reading your own insecurities into my words, dear Enjolras. You are the best of us, and if you need me to assure you then I assume the new job description is getting to you. I'll leave you in peace.”

Grantaire didn’t bow, but he inclined his head in ironic imitation, before backing away from Enjolras and taking to the stairs. He stuck out a hand in greeting to Joly, and Enjolras lent back against the wall next to the painting.

Enjolras had barely spoken to Grantaire before. They’d exchanged words in the garage, but it had never been anything profound, anything political. And yet Grantaire thought highly of Enjolras, he agreed with the moral failings of the monarchy and agreed, abet without words,  that something needed to change. Enjolras couldn’t believe that he hadn’t registered that Grantaire had a birthmark on both hands. Grantaire was Cosette’s friend, not his, and he thinks that Enjolras is the best of them.

Grantaire is laughing with Joly and Bossuet, at the top of the stairs, already looking thick as thieves. Enjolras doesn’t look away until Combeferre gestures to him, trying to distract him from Courfeyrac who has a distinctly rectangular object under his jacket, and Enjolras relishes in their distraction.

***

“Of course I understand the effort that you’ve put into this arrangement Feuilly, and you have gone out of your way to make this process comfortable for me. But no one has acknowledged that I do not want to do this, it has been blindly assumed that I would be willing to go along with this disgustingly autocratic system. I do not want to be a king, I have lived my life with the principles of democracy; I want to study politics at college. And now you come into my life and just expect that I will be willing to become a king. The monarchy is a universally corrupt institution, and I’m sure that you love your country but France is not except from this. And even if the French monarchy is the _only_ royal institution in the world to have consistently politically sound figures, the very ideal of monarchy is undemocratic and ultimately immoral. I do not want to be your crown prince, let alone a King.”

Enjolras was pacing across his narrow bedroom, angrily balling his hands into fists and tugging at the pale hair which had fallen from its bun. Feuilly was sitting at Enjolras’ desk, seemingly paying more attention to the political theory books piled next to his laptop, than Enjolras’ words.

“Enjolras, calm down.”

Enjolras slumped down on his bed, hands sinking into his hair, defeated.

“Enjolras, I understand that this situation must be very difficult for you. I understand that you and your friends want to make a change in this world, but have you considered this as you being given an opportunity to make a positive change. You have been given an almost unique opportunity to make a difference, on a truly global level.”

Feuilly reached down to the knapsack which he had brought with him, and span expertly on Enjolras’ chair to face him.

“Now, I would lose my livelihood should word of this get out, but I agree with you. The system is corrupt. Your grandfather, the King is a good man, a beloved king, who has been handing over more powers to the growing French parliament, but this is the twenty-first century and my country is entitled to more.”

Enjolras raised his head, there were only so many times that he, Combeferre and Courfeyrac could turn the problem over between them, and only so many times that he and Cosette could come up with wild schemes to abandon the crown. Hearing Feuilly talk frankly gave him hope.

“As you know, the monarchy has astounding legalistic, economic and social powers, especially the French Monarchy, and while powers are being transferred to the French Parliament this process is slow and legalistic. Consider the influence that a just man could have on this process, and as you must have read, there is historical precedent for the abdication and abolition of the monarchy. History has never been kind to these figures, but I believe a prince with suitable advisers could enact lasting political change.”

Feuilly pulled out a thick file from the bag on his lap, and tapped it against his thigh. Enjolras could see the indecision in Feuilly’s face.

“I have been given a collection of royal and parliamentary papers, and it has been entrusted to my better judgement which papers you need to see. I believe that you have the right to consult all of these papers, especially those concerning the rights and liberties of the subject and settling of the succession of the crown. I must warn you, these papers are confidential, and I don’t want to see, or hear, any evidence that anyone other than you has read them. You are a good man Enjolras, even if you are tempestuous, but this can be explained, if not justified by your youth; I believe that you are capable of great things. I believe that you can, and you will make the correct decision. Please, consider what we’ve said here today.”

Feuilly held the file out in front of him, and Enjolras reached out for it, smiling.

He had some reading to do.

***

Cosette is in a daze, and while Enjolras is delighted for her, he’s also relieved that she’s being amply distracted. She still makes sure to call him her favourite male princess, but now it’s accompanied by a kiss on the cheek and a spin on her heels to go and meet Marius.

Marius looked like he would faint the first time that Cosette introduced him to Fauchelevent. Enjolras tried to look stern, but the look of fear in Marius’ eyes and how his hands had fluttered nervously in front of him had just made Enjolras laugh instead. Cosette told him that he was being mean, but she had been smiling too.

They’ve not been at the embassy for days, now that Enjolras has more or less acknowledged the fact that he wouldn’t be immediately abdicating, not that Enjolras has said anything explicitly, but Feuilly has whispered in the right ears. Enjolras’ life has finally started to return to normal, even if he is still being flanked by Jehan and Bahorel, and the occasional photographer attempted to photograph him for foreign media.

Sometimes Enjolras catches Javert and Fauchelevent talking, taking turns to mutter in corners when Enjolras has gathered an unexpected entourage in the garage. The two of them converse harshly, and then part, standing staring at the collective mass. Javert is content to scowl at them for the duration of the working day, but Fauchelevent has a business to run. The garage is a successful business, to the best of Enjolras’ knowledge he has never worried about money, and his primary concern has always been Cosette. Enjolras has overheard conversations not meant for him about Fantine, whose name is always whispered reverently, and about a promise.

That the house is large is a blessing, and Fauchelevent’s must be the only garage in American where a Baron and a Duke regularly help to wash the cars.

The local news have got bored of seeing part of a minor European countries royal household about town soon enough, but Feuilly had rang Enjolras, barely concealing his laughter, when the French press had run with a story of the heir apparent stripped to the waist, with his hair swept over his shoulders, and bent over soaping a tire arch.

“I know you want to make a statement Enjolras, but perhaps keep the public nudity and promiscuous positions to a minimum, I know it’s not your responsibility to elude the paparazzi, and I am trying to control the situation. However, rumours are already flying around about the two people in the picture with you. I’ve managed to suppress anything concerning Cosette, I’ve placed her as your adoptive sister, but there’s nothing I can do about the other man, you apparently are having a secret love affair with an older unknown American cliché, it’s started quite a scandal. Try not to assault any photographers either, and explicitly remind Bahorel not to, again. Remember, we’re on Wednesday to fit you for a suit.”

Bossuet was banned from helping them reassemble engines after the second time there was blood.

They make an efficient team, with Enjolras, Cosette and Courfeyrac instructing those who have never worked on a car before, their way around a garage. Joly is surprisingly capable at handling cars, saying that it’s all to do with medical intuition, but it is Musichetta who is the runaway star of the garage on the rare occasions that she isn’t working.

Bahorel breaks his resolve not to do work that he’s not actually being paid for more often than Jehan, and helps them to reach the roofs of taller cars, while Jehan stood stoic, although occasionally his lips twisted and pursed in barely concealed laughter.

Despite the strange circumstance of their meeting, it has been as though they have all been friends for years, Courfeyrac loves them all, bounding between Bahorel, Bossuet and Grantaire with equal aplomb, and Combeferre who has never formed emotional bonds as quickly as Courfeyrac, is equally as delighted with their newly extended group.

Cosette is everyone’s darling, although she is truly the apple of Marius’ eye.

Then there is Éponine, Enjolras learnt that she was the head of the Pontmercy household, and she accompanies Marius everywhere. When Marius is trying to learn how to change a tire or how Cosette likes her coffee, she sits, she sits, although Marius without fail tells her that her duties don’t extend to this, and watches them. She doesn’t join them, even when Courfeyrac gestures to her to come or Combeferre pats her shoulder. She doesn’t join in, but she smiles tightly at Enjolras when he catches her eye.

She looks sad, and Grantaire, when she lets him hug her.

Grantaire is a dab hand with fixing broken radios, but he’s not above ganging up with Cosette to tease Enjolras. He, alongside everyone else is spending more time in the garage, and now he and Enjolras are friends in their own right, Grantaire’s individual sense of humour is shining through, aided and abetted by Cosette. This often involves the two of them lounging beside him while Enjolras uses elbow grease to clean the wheel-caps, and making loud comments about privilege and how the monarchy are scared to work for what they get. That could have been how it was before, had Enjolras not left once Grantaire arrived. Enjolras found he liked hearing their laughter, even if it was at his expense.

Surprisingly enough it is neither Cosette nor Grantaire who start the water fight, instead it’s Courfeyrac and Combeferre. They are supposed to be hosing down a car, having soaped it down, but instead they are play fighting over the hose, pointing it down each other’s backs and good heartedly shoving each other. Enjolras wonders when they’ll realise, or if they ever will, or if he’s reading things into nothing. He’s never been the best at judging romantic feelings.

Grantaire has been hit with a stray blast, and rather than make a reactionary move for the bucket at his feet he instead removed his sopping shirt, revealing tattoos and a thick and powerful physique. Grantaire’s shirt is utilised as an effective weapon to flick water at unsuspecting people, although that Bossuet has seemingly started arming people with water pistols and sponges, none of them are truly unsuspecting.

Jehan looks stoic as ever, except now he’s armed with a lethal looking water gun, and it atop Bahorel’s shoulders, aiming indiscriminately among the group. Enjolras really wants to meet Jehan when he’s off duty.

Joly’s crouched behind the soapy car, shrieking with laughter and shouting instructions for Bossuet and Musichetta, his French-Jamaican accent more pronounced when he was shouting rallying cries. Enjolras is beginning to suspect that it is a set up when Musichetta starts removing layers to reveal that she’s cannier than the rest of them and has been wearing a bikini under her dress. That it is a set-up is confirmed when Joly starts pelting the unshielded majority, excluding Bossuet and Musichetta with pre-prepared water balloons.

Enjolras keeps his sopping clothes on, since his brush with being painted as soft-core French pornography a few weeks back. He’s not asked to see the articles, for the sake of plausible deniability as well as decency, although he has a sinking feeling he knows who the other man in it is. The man who France thinks he’s sleeping with, and he’s currently lifting up his little sister and spinning her around the other’s so her saturated skirts dabble the others in water.

Cosette spins out of Grantaire’s arms and into a dazzled, and soaked, Marius. No one else is as wet as Marius, not even Bossuet, who fell into the bucket.

Something good has come out of this royal mess.

***

Enjolras didn’t splutter his drink when Feuilly slipped into the uncomfortable metal canteen benches beside him, but it was a near thing. He was grateful that both Combeferre and Courfeyrac had wolfed down their respective meals to make more time to work on their science project; Enjolras wasn’t aware that they even had a science project due in, but it spared him Courfeyrac’s guffawing at his expense.

“A makeover? I do hope that you are joking Feuilly.”

There were clearly people listening in to their conversation, but Enjolras turned, ignoring the giggling from behind him, to stare at Feuilly face on.

“I am going along with this farce for the good of a people that I’ve never met, a people who I want to help free from an oppressive system of government. But let me make one thing clear, you are not giving me a makeover, and you are certainly not cutting my hair.”

Feuilly cocked his head and Enjolras could hear the tapping of his tongue stud against his teeth.

“Look, you can talk to Cosette with regard to my outfit, I honestly don’t care about this sort of thing, and I’m sure she’d be delighted to pick me out a crown. But I am not having a makeover, and you leave my hair alone. I’m sure you appreciate the need for self-expression and identity. I am giving your country so much, I must keep my own autonomy. Do you understand?”

Feuilly smiled again.

“Very well Enjolras, not the hair, I understand.”

***

Somehow it became the week of the ascendancy ceremony, and Feuilly, who was normally well tempered and mild, became a force to be reckoned with.

“I know it’s old fashioned, outdated and heteronormative, but you are required to have a date to this event. You can publically decry the system, but if you are going to attend this ball, and are going to publically announce your status within the French monarchy, you are required to be accompanied. I don’t care if it’s purely sexual, romantic, platonic or non-of the above, I can work with anything, but there will be someone, I don’t care who, in attendance with you, do I make myself clear?“

Cosette had spun into Enjolras’ room after Marius had gathered up the courage to ask her. He’d given her a corsage, periwinkle blue to match her hair, and Cosette had been taken to wearing it around the house and staring at it around her wrist when she though Enjolras wasn’t looking. He didn’t mock her though, her happiness was more important than that, and Marius, although ditzy, was so obviously enamoured with Cosette that Enjolras had to smile.

It did however leave Enjolras with a problem, as the girl who was practically his sister would be the obvious solution as to who to take to the ceremony.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac had immediately insisted that they I‘d be at the ball should he want them there, and Enjolras was so grateful that they’d be there at all that it never occurred to him to separate them.

Éponine had disappeared into the shadows as soon as Marius had stammered out his intention to take Cosette to the royal event, and it was her absence which reminded Enjolras of his predicament. As much as he considered the royal household his friends; Joly, Bossuet, Feuilly, Musichetta, Feuilly, Jehan and Bahorel were royal staff, and would be working for the duration of the evening.  No only where they part of the royal court, but they were both serving and subservient to him, and Enjolras hated it.

But there is Grantaire.

Grantaire is teasing a carburetor into submission leaving Enjolras alone with him, Cosette having dropped out the room to change her overalls and rescue Marius from her father now that Enjolras can keep Grantaire company.  Grantaire waved Cosette away with red and black fingers, nodded at Enjolras and then turned back to the car, humming mindlessly under his breath. Normally when Enjolras was alone he worked in silence, but Grantaire’s tuneless humming was pleasant.

“The ball is this Saturday; I assume you were surely planning on attending anyway. Due to the frankly backdated and crude expectations for my ascendancy, I need to have a partner and it only makes sense. You’re not expected to do anything, just to come along, I don’t care what you wear, but considering that you’ll be there anyway, I’ll meet you at the ceremony.”

Grantaire stared blankly for a moment, before nodding once briefly, turning back to the engine. He didn’t start humming again.

Mentally he thinks of the reputation that the infamous photograph has got him in the French lifestyle magazines, Grantaire as his partner will get him noticed, no matter how Feuilly spins it.

***

The worst part is that he looks exactly like himself in the mirror, yes, he’s been preened and primped and he’s in a suit that it too tight and too expensive, but he can only see himself in the mirror.  His own high features and haughty expression, his own blond curls and his own panicked expression.

Enjolras wishes that he’d gone with Feuilly’s original suggestion of a t-shirt and jeans. Wishes that he had ever come to him. Wishes that his Grandfather wasn’t King of France, and wishes above all that it wasn’t his responsibility to right this wrong.

But it was his responsibility.

Outside this bathroom door was a room full of expectant European nobility, a crown picked out by his sister, and a kingdom with awaiting new heir.

Enjolras took longer than he cared to admit staring at his pallid reflection, mentally giving himself a pep talk, but when he walked out with his head high.

The room is crowded, and Enjolras can only recognise a handful of figures and it is Feuilly’s brief, satisfied nod which finally convinces him to step forward. Enjolras has always been confident, and has always been eloquent and even in this he will achieve, because he has to.

His mother couldn’t make it, had offered only vague apologies and if Enjolras has leant anything, it’s that he gets to choose his own family. But Fauchelevent is there, looking between his dancing daughter and Javert whose standing in the corner, he might be scowling, but Enjolras can’t tell because the man is wearing sunglasses indoors. He can see Combeferre and Courfeyrac towards the back of the ballroom, dancing what appears to be the robot, and he’s heading towards them, seeking a final piece of normality before the chaos reigns. And then Cosette detaches herself from Marius when she spots him and makes her way over to him.

He can’t see Grantaire.

He had expected Grantaire to be here, there’s no reason that he wouldn’t attend. But before he can think about the missing person of Grantaire any more, Cosette has her arms around him, and he can’t help but smile.

“Oh, don’t you look wonderful, the perfect image of a communist king.”

“Cosette, don’t scare the poor royalists, I’ll sneak up on them, change their laws and they’ll never know what’s coming.”

Cosette laughed, adjusting the red sash across Enjolras’ shoulder. Enjolras didn’t even know why he was wearing a sash, but he let Cosette fiddle with it until she was happy.

“Now, you’re just going to love your crown as well, and don’t worry, it was cost effective, promise.”

Cosette grins, and there’s something sly about her smile, but Enjolras trusts her, sometimes despite his better judgement.

“Now, Grantaire promised me that he’d come and see my big brother get his own country, have you heard from him?”

“No, I told him I’d meet him here.”

“Why?”

“I told him I needed a partner for the ball, and that he was coming alone, so that I would meet him here.”

Cosette’s face fell, and Enjolras felt unduly guilty.

“Oh Enjolras, that was terribly cruel of you. I know you don’t know him like I do, but, oh- Oh, no, not today, I’m not cross with you, just, oh Enjolras. Good luck, Prince Enjolras.”

Cosette squeezed his hand once, before darting back over to Marius, her skirts twirling around her calves.

Cosette’s words echo in his head as he mingles with the crowd. He’s grateful for Joly’s refusal to obey royal convention, when Enjolras reaches him, calling him his name rather than his title, and gesturing him into a hug as opposed to a handshake. Combeferre had taken one look at Enjolras’ face and had taken his hands tightly for the brief moment, promising to talk afterwards, to give him all the support he needed, but he was soon moved along by the crowd. He still couldn’t see Grantaire. And Cosette had told him that he had been cruel. He didn’t think he had been cruel. Wanting to spend time with Grantaire shouldn’t be considered a cruelty.

The meal preceding the ceremony flew by, Enjolras made a weak attempt at polite small talk with Gillenormand on his  left, although Feuilly gestured to him more than once to tone it down, at least until he had legislative powers. The food itself was decadent and rich, but Enjolras couldn’t lable to courses, and was aware of the empty place set between Cosette and her father.

Enjolras can only remember fragments of his acceptance speech. Combeferre had helped him write it, and Courfeyrac had helped him with the presentation. But in the end he spoke about the responsibility of the individual to the people, the rights of man and of his willingness to sacrifice his ambition to better the lives and political stability of his people.

Feuilly had smiled at him, and while it hadn’t been his face Enjolras was searching for in the crowd, he was grateful nonetheless.

The crown currently secured behind his ears is it’s more of a tiara than anything else, it’s small and delicate, twinkling with diamonds from the light of the chandelier but he doesn’t care, let them know what sort of prince he’s going to be. He can’t stand any misogynistic bullshit, and he’s not above admitting that he had let Cosette help him plait his hair the night before, so his gentle curls are flowing around his head, showering across his shoulders. She’s said that he would look like Prince Charming, and Enjolras is determined to keep his profile high. And screw them if he’s going to change who he is for them. He’s going to reform the monarchy, and tear down the archaic institution around their unwitting faces, and he’ll do it alone if he has to.

And then it’s over, with a scattering of applause, and Enjolras wants nothing more than to excuse himself, to remove the crown and to return to his research abdication and annulment of the monarchy, but he is expected to continue to socialise with his new found people.

The first person who steps forward to greet him is Grantaire.

Enjolras felt his face flush, and Grantaire stepped forward, as though he was inspired by Enjolras’ shyness.

"You look, can I say beautiful? Or would that be rude?"

Grantaire looks stunning, he’s in a suit, and well, he’s never been a handsome man, even when he’d not been covered in motor oil or paint, but there’s something about him in this instance. And Enjolras understands.

“ _You_  look beautiful.”

And Grantaire flushed, and Enjolras had never felt a power like it.

The squeak that Grantaire gave out when Enjolras kissed him and weaved his arms around his waist, only made Enjolras feel braver.

He may be a reluctant prince, but he might be achieving a happy ending after all.

***

The flight would be boring, but Enjolras has court papers to peruse, and if his accidental assent to royalty has done anything, it has caused him to flesh out his history. He has the files open across his lap, and he’s spent the last hour cross referencing various nations oaths of succession with regards to their parliamentary rolls.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac are planning on flying out to France after they’ve spent time with their respective families. After becoming the heir apparent life had returned to something approaching normal for Enjolras. He had only seen his mother once in person, when she came to congratulate him for graduating with a press on the cheek and a cheque that Enjolras coolly rejected. Instead it was Fauchelevent and Cosette where on the plane with him, Cosette delighted to get to spend more time with Marius in France, and Fauchelevent both overseeing and looking at Javert out of the corner of his eye.

Enjolras stretches his feet out, nudging his crown-patterned socks -Courfeyrac think’s he’s hilarious- into Grantaire’s stomach, who has fallen asleep opposite him. His feet have been resting in Grantaire’s lap for the majority of the flight.

"Morning, we there yet?"

"Not yet love, what do you think about this?"

Enjolras lent forward, proffering the paper towards him, and Grantaire’s brows creased as he read.

The monarchy business isn’t what Enjolras wanted, and he’s going to deconstruct it as soon as he’s able, but it does have some perks.

**Author's Note:**

> I am fully aware that this is daft and silly, but also hopefully enjoyable.
> 
> Now with, adorable, [accompanying art](http://caroll-in.tumblr.com/post/97046430069/dont-make-me-call-you-euphraise-young-lady-if) by [Karol](http://caroll-in.tumblr.com/).


End file.
